


༺( Color Me Blind )༻

by Otherwise_Uncolonized



Category: Disney Princesses, Frozen (2013), Tangled (2010), The Princess and the Frog (2009)
Genre: 1930s, Abusive Relationships, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Romance, Banter, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bittersweet, Black Character(s), Blackmail, Burlesque, Cabarets, Canon Character of Color, Childhood Friends, Conflict, Cooking, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dancing and Singing, Depression, Disney, Disney Multiverse, Drama, Drinking & Talking, Eating Disorders, Elsa (Disney) Has Issues, Ethnocentrism, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Female Character of Color, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Hans (Disney) Being an Asshole, Hate Crimes, Hero Complex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Intense, Interracial Relationship, Interviews, Intimacy, Introspection, Journalism, Lies, Love Triangles, Married Characters, Misunderstandings, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Bankruptcy, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Moving On, Off-screen Relationship(s), Older Man/Younger Woman, Open to Interpretation, POV Female Character, Partial Nudity, Politics, Post-Loss, Poverty, Prostitution, Pseudo-History, Racism, Racist Language, Rare Pairings, Romance, Romantic Angst, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Seduction, Segregation, Sexism, Shame, Slow Dancing, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity, White Privilege
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherwise_Uncolonized/pseuds/Otherwise_Uncolonized
Summary: ¸.·´¯`·.´¯`·.¸☀¸.·´¯`·.´¯`·.¸"Do we always have to talk about race and what goes on beyond these walls?""Well, I'm sorry I don't have the luxury of puttin' it up on the shelf to trade it for some fairy tale the way you do."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Metamorphiac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metamorphiac/gifts), [butterflydreaming (chrysalisdreams)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysalisdreams/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AU of this chapter,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6075498/chapters/15778282) with different character paths.

* * *

## Olive Oil

* * *

She can't stand cleaning up after old rich white men and their greasy egos. They can't keep nothing to themselves whether it be their hands or their liquor. Not one has been fit to care about calling her by her name or apologizing for spilling wine on her dress at all hours of the night, and they always manage to draw a bead on "her kind" even when "her kind" hasn't got a thing to do with their undercooked salmon. Their women ain't much better. Night in and night out they disrespect her humanity, or what they call _three-fifths_ of a humanity, and she's about to go upside their heads with three-fifths of her piping hot temper. 

But she puts up with it for Mama. She puts up with it until she can go home and think her own thoughts before putting them back on the shelf in the morning. Then she buses straight from Cafe Du Monde to Velvet and trades her apron for a flapper dress. God wouldn't've brought her here if it hadn't been for Mama needing money back home. The first summer she got her feet wet in Goldwater, she found a job as a house maid for Mr. La Bouff and his daughter, Charlotte. It took nothing less than Mr. La Bouff's sugary compliments, homemade rumors, and a sticky love triangle for Charlotette's jealousy to get her reputation kicked to the curb.

Mr. La Bouff, kind as he may have been in the past, made sure she'd never set foot in another white mansion for as long as she was still colored. The word reached her hometown, where she had to hear from Mama about all the folks dragging her name through the same streets she used to play hopscotch in. It got real hard getting up to feed herself every sunrise. Running out of finances gave her appetite an extra boost, and by then, the chances of locking down a decent job were slimmer than her waist. She resisted Velvet's job application for a while ― she resisted for a _long_ while ― but she couldn't resist no more after Mama got sick.

See, Velvet pays Coloreds more than the average sweat joint in Goldwater, and as long as she won’t have to do what the light, bright, and white women do at Velvet, she'll fair mighty fine. She reckons that her heart is a Southern magnolia tree that God had planted to withstand hurricanes, and she isn't about to wait for no world to grow into her. She was born to outgrow the world. Goldwater will see its very first colored woman run the biggest restaurant any day now. A great big piece of earth is out there just waiting for her to fertilize it with her vision once she gets done paying off Mama's debts. But these colorless men ― sometimes they make her want to fold herself up like a pair of dirty pantyhose and never see daylight till the world has outgrown _them_.

"Gal, tell one of your skinfolks to get me the Devil's Mouthwash while I'm [taking a nixon](https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Bowel%20Movement). I plan on being legless t'night." 

"Yes, _sir_! Comin' _right_ up, sir!" She's gotten real swell at pretending white men's words slide off her like olive oil, but they're even sweller at steaming her up like a tea kettle on a stove. Men everywhere of every color seem to heat her patience beyond its boiling point. 

"Have you seen Rider lately, young lady?"

"I...I declare I haven't, Miss Orléans." 

Though there was this _one_ man ― this... _scoundrel_  of sorts who would stick out among the high rollers to everybody who was anybody. He was plenty handsome as far as handsome went, real smooth-talking with nicely pressed suits, and his skin was a pinch melanated, too. Mama would've called him, "sugar, spice, and everythin' nice." Because of his swarthy looks, he got treated like an Italian in Velvet, which is to say that he was seen as one of those "in-between people" by his own skinfolk; his looks still didn't exclude him from their privileges, so to Coloreds, he was no different than any other white man. Oftentimes, "in-between" white people do their best to get in good with "lily white" white people by mimicking the very worst of what they do to Coloreds.

Yet he seemed... _different_. He didn't try to animalize her people as far as she could see, and that gave him some color to them. It was just the little things he did at first that caught their attention, such as asking his lady friends to ease off poor Odessa, or soft-soaping burlesque girls into apologizing to the colored bus girls they taunted, and even helping old Miss Jolene down the stairs; little bread crumbs like those that he might've expected some Nobel Peace Prize for, she imagined. "Flynn Rider" was the name she heard all the girls giving him, and no angel ever fell out of Heaven with a name like that. She doesn’t count on sympathizers going out of their way to end racism in the grand scheme of things, especially not when they come to spend their health insurance on Velvet, so she gambled on this one having a hero complex that was all about feeding his own ego.

She won the bet on the night she went from serving to singing. Desiree Dupré was supposed to be singing that night, but the nightingale had fallen ill two hours before her performance for ["Almost There."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYc5H7VvZbc) _She,_ the colored waitress, happened to be the only Desiree Dupré fan on the staff. Nobody else knew how to sing her songs with the same rhythm and range, so Mr. Westergaard pushed her into Desiree's dressing room under the impression that "the audience won't know the difference because all you people look alike."

When everything was happening, she pretended that she was in some Hollywood motion picture instead of the world people like Lars Westergaard had scraped out for her. Belting out harmonies has never been a dream of hers, but once she hit that stage, she _sang_ like she had God in her lungs. God is the one who really brought those folks together from all walks of life by using her voice as his vessel. He warmed them right up and put big smiles on their faces in that godless place. She couldn't stop herself from basking in all the applause she received.

Much of her wishes she had now, given how backhanded all that praise was, but the rest of her had been high up in them clouds from those first, few, fickle moments of what almost felt like equality. Acceptance. Oneness. _Love_. All of the sudden, the world had grown into her.

And then, the world shrank again, and it tried to shrink her along with it. She was wiping off her eye-shadow in Desiree's dressing room when a couple knocked on her door with a gift. How sweet and lovely-minded they were for bringing her flowers, she figured. Truly cushionhearted and whole-spirited people. The Southern belle, Mrs. Baker, had no problem with touching her hands and talking about how pretty her skin shined.

Then Mr. and Mrs. Baker started carrying on and on about how talented "niggras" are, and all that inclusivity she felt went right on out the door like she should've done. But she didn't. She sat there like a fool would do after they left and swallowed her tears in front of Desiree’s vanity mirror. All she really wanted was to escape all the ugly in the world and build her own corner of it to thrive in, but the furthest she could run was her very own mind. That's why she has to outgrow the world instead of waiting for the world to grow into her. 

After cleaning herself up and dressing herself down, she closed the dressing room's door behind her and threw away Mrs. Baker’s roses. Velvet's back alley was the only thing waiting for her with open arms. She almost made it halfway to the bus stop before she heard _this_  ruckus behind her:

" _There_ she is~!" 

"What on God's green earth is it now?" She put some pressure on her temple with her fingertips. Tiana Dubòis was good and through with folks by now. No matter what color this man was, he had too much energy for this time of night.

" _I_ have been looking _all_ over for you!" His footsteps caught up to her.

She pulled herself together to confront him. "And just _who_ might―"  

The man who walked up on her had looked so much like Naveen up close until she put the features together and recognized his race as well as his name. 

"― _you_ be?" she finished. 

He seemed to mistake her surprise for awe. "Rider. _Flynn_ , Rider."

Her surprise thinned out like butter in a frying pan. _'Well, congratulations. Now please get the hell on 'fore I lose the feelin' in my feet―'_  

Flynn squeezed her fingertips and tipped his hat to her like a gentleman, wagging his eyebrows all silly and foolish-like. She was too stunned to respond like the white woman he seemed to think he could treat her like. He let her pores breathe by releasing her hand without wiping his own on his pants.

 _'Which part of outta space did **he** emigrate from?'_ She had to resist wiping her fingers on her coat.

"And  _you_ ," he kept on, "were incredible tonight. Stunning, if you don't my saying. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

She didn't like the idea of having anyone's eyes on her. 

"Haven't seen a gape-worthy performance like that since Billie Holiday's 'Summertime.'" 

"Oh, now I wouldn't―..." The jingling of a chain gave her a startle. She minded her surroundings. Some eavesdropper who tried to look inconspicuous was checking his pocket watch while he waited for a cab on the sidewalk, but he was well-off, nosey, and white, and that mash-up was enough to make her hair stand up. She touched her throat before turning back to her new pair of handcuffs. "I....I thank you, _very_ much, sir―"

"Oh, no please; just call me Rider." He was still smirking like he had something to smirk about. Probably did, with as big of a female following as he had. If he thought her color would make her easy to be eased into, then he had another thing coming. 

The eavesdropper took the anvil off her lungs by hopping into a cab and leaving them in a cloud of fumes. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief as she walked away from that awful poison.

Rider followed in her footsteps. "Delightful!" he coughed against the silk wing of his cream evening scarf. "Just ― that's great. Just perfect. Great way ta' end an evening." 

"That's Goldwata fo' ya!" While she was walking ahead of him to get more feet between them, she closed her green coat at the collar and said, "I should tell you that I've heard your name several times b'fore, Mista Rida." 

They stopped walking together once they arrived at the bus stop. The bench was empty because she was a whole hour early, but it was the first time in a long time that she wasn't feeling too peachy about the peoplelessness around her. 

"Is that right?" Flynn unenthusiastically answered.

She would have done herself one better by being polite and bright in his face till he had peeled off her. Can't have attitude around white folks. Their egos don't take kindly to it. "That's right, Mista Rida. See ya' every other Friday upstairs ― up there in the VIP sections? You make quite a commotion in Velvet. Surprised no husbands have fined ya' for stealin' the hearts of those wives they try to hold onto."  

He chuckled softly, that pride of his gaining another liter. "What can I say? My charm is a felony." It was something Naveen would've said, as well as something that would've made her smile. 

She got to grinning without giving her teeth permission to do such a thing. The best way to tame her dimples was to look down at her scuffed shoes and close her lips into a smile. If he had been Naveen, she might've said,  _"I'll bet those big brown eyes of yours have gotten you outta plenty of trouble."_

"I hope you don't mind me changing the subject, but may I ask why a starlet of your magnetism is...waiting for the bus?" His voice had a different flavor.

She could taste the sympathy marshmallowing it just by listening to him, but she responded as flowery as could be, "I gave up on cabs sometime ago, Mista Rida."

He let that marinate. "... _How_ aboutI get you a cab?"

She flipped out. "Oh no, that's not necessary. Really―"

"Of _course_ it is! What kind of groupie would I be otherwise?" Now he's fast-talking her.

 _'Has he lost his whole white mind?!'_ "No, no _please_. My troubles don't need takin' on by a man of your stature. Your praise has been more than enough to soften up my night."

"It's no trouble at all." Flynn licked his thumb to leaf through the green cheddar in his hands. "It's the very _least_ I could do after that inspirational performance you blessed me with."

Her teeth bit her lip. _'You're a hardheaded thing, huh?'_ She paid his attire a glance. He must've been in tall cotton if he could afford that [navy blue satin tuxedo](https://aliciasbridal.com/sites/aliciasbridal.com/files/styles/medium__720_x720_-copy/public/images/c1015_0.jpg?itok=bq9jlJEy) he was stunting in. Her hand went underneath her coat to stroke her neck. She couldn't wait to have that kind of money on her skin.

"So! How far up are you heading, Mademoiselle?"

Her hand was so sweaty that it practically peeled off her neck with the stickiness of an orange peel coming off the fruit. "I beg ya' pardon?"

Flynn looked up from his wallet and looked straight into her eyes like they were equals. She looked down to remind him that they weren't in public. While people may not have been around, cars were still on the highway. 

"I said how far up are you heading?"

She put some of Auntie Claudia in her voice, "Mista Rida, I appreciate your kindness. I _really_ do, but I prefer the bus for reasons that're too hard to explain to you."

Flynn thought about what she said, and this time, he let it marinate long enough to savor it. He folded his money and tapped the roll with his thumbs before squinting at her with an ironic smile. "Did I~ ever ask you for your name? Because _I_ have an inkling that it doesn't start with Desiree or end with Dupré." 

Lars Westergaard didn't know two cells about white minds, after all. "Ya' caught me redhanded, Mista Rida." She playfully shrugged her shoulders with her hands in her coat pockets. "It surely doesn't."

He narrowed his eye at her, smirking. "Thennn _who's_ the talented voicetress standing before me?" 

She hesitated, but something in his eyes ― something real familiar in them ― made her let go of that small piece of herself that he wanted a bite of: "Tiana is what everyone calls me."

Flynn Rider gazed at her like a teacup had fallen off the cabinet inside him. Her pulse started speaking to her. She held down the top of her hat to stop the wind from stealing it. A thought was leaking through his skull that he couldn't give words to. 

She tried to give him some for borrowing, "Is...everythin' aw'right in there, Mista Rida?" 

Flynn blinked, and then he was half-himself again.  "...Yeah!" He nodded, rubbing his hind legs. "Yeah, just there's, um..." He went back inside himself to think. Thinking did him no good, because he came back out more diced up than before. "What I meant was― ...uh, what I meant was...I'll be keeping that in mind." His nervous smile was artificial. "Your name, I mean."

"That means plenty to me." She hoped that he would he forget it. Knowing his doings, he really should have. "Well, then...you have a swell night t'night, Mista Rida." 

"No, yeah! Yup, same to you." He was still standing outside of himself, but she didn't care to find out why or how she had turned him inside out. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Tiana. Truly."

"Likewise, Mista Rida."

"But are you... _sure_ you're gonna be okay out here all by yourself?"

"I'm used to it. So long, Mista Rida."

"...So long, Tiana." The soft way in which he murmured her name made it sound like it could cleanse the sins from a man.

Smiling the way Mama taught her to, she walked past him to go on about her night. He turned around as she passed by, memorizing her face. The bench was chilly against her thighs when she sat down. She remembers because it got chillier after Flynn finally walked away. She also remembers how hot her thumbs felt after she wiped the tears from her eyes.

She had been thinking about Naveen, Charlotte, and Mr. La Bouff. Naveen had probably outgrown her, but she still hadn't outgrown him if she was seeing him in other people. The hardest part about it was the fact that she didn't have a choice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Elsa's performance in here: loosely imagine ["I'll Be Yours"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYp46QL6oZ8) in English.

* * *

## Sour Buttermilk

* * *

Home was a one hour nap and a thirty minute walk away from Velvet. Her neighbors all saw her coming down the swamp because this was the Friday night to be sitting outdoors and drinking Alabama Hammer well into sunrise. Folks around here are different from folks back in her hometown. They don't butter each other up with "How y'doin'?" or "Hope y'all have a fine night," and the [high yellow](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_yellow) light skins never say a word to the dark skins unless they're hocking up all kinds of foul names to spit at them. Then the dark skins start spitting those same foul names at each other whenever they're three sheets to the wind.

Both skins used to treat hers like it was an ink stain that needed to be bleached out of a cotton dress. None were too kind to what they called her "white girl" hair and "white girl" figure because everything else on her was too black for their liking, but most let her alone nowadays.

Janie Thatcher is the only soul who bothers with her. He was standing out there on his porch with a plate of buttermilk fried chicken when she'd passed his house right on by. "Mornin', Miss Dubòis!" His voice jumped under her bones and settled inside her stomach like Daddy's shrimp gumbo.

She couldn't muster her strength to wave, so she smiled at him from the road. "Mornin', Janie! How's that new stove treatin' you?" 

"The piece of junk doesn't amount to a hill of beans, really! Had ta' eat my leftovers from las' night this mornin'!" He put his glasses on. "How's Outteridge been treatin' you?" 

She shrugged her shoulder. "Like always: no different and no betta!"

"Are we still on for suppa t'night?" 

"Now I done told you about that ego." 

He laughed from his belly. "Aw, I don't mean no harm by it, Miss Dubòis! I just wanted ta' put a smile on your face, that's all!"

"Janie, I'm not even your type."

"And what's my type, Miss Dubòis?"

"[Yellowbone](http://queerconsciousness.com/white-supremacist-roots-of-yellow-bone/) Josephine LaFleur." 

Janie just laughed more. "Say, Miss Dubòis? Should I bring over one of my breasts or one of my thighs? You know, just so you don't have to whip somethin' up for yourself at this hour!"

She rolled her eyes. "Very thoughtful, Janie, but I got my own leftovas up at the house, so I'll be just fine."

"Alright, Miss Dubòis! You go head and be fine, then!"

"Will you hush all that noise?" she laughed. "Gonna get me called up by Mrs. Strongbow."

"Whatever you say, Miss Dubòis!” he whispered loudly. “I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep tight!"

"Sleep tight, Janie. Don't let them baby alligatas bite!" 

"Same to you, Miss Dubòis!" His laughter was getting further away from her. "Same to you...!" 

She watched Janie Thatcher blow out his porch lantern and go inside for the morning. Good ol' Janie Thatcher. He could make somebody half a decent husband if he had his mind right. The man has the virtues and double the smarts, but he's got no taste in women; just seasonings. Fellas in the swamp give him a hard time about himself because they think he wears his britches like a four-eyed white man, yet the funny thing about it is that the majority of them are waiting for the day to be treated like white men by actual white men. 

Half a world away from Janie Thatcher's house waited [her house](https://sallychisomphotos.shutterfly.com/pictures/144#137). It was over yonder down by the waterfront, hidden behind a family of sleeping willows and dead branches rising out of the bayou like bear claws. Buying a house uptown had been the plan, but Goldwater's expenses ― among other things ― have herded Coloreds into swamps and projects even though there's no law that says Coloreds have to be apart from Whites. High yellow girls are usually kept by white lovers if they're the gorgeous kind, yet eventually they all end up back in the swamps like Josephine LaFleur unless brothels take them in. It's silly how things are in Goldwater: entertaining, serving, chauffeuring, breastfeeding, bus riding, and sleeping with white folks is all fine and dandy if they ask for it, but living like them isn't. 

Four o'clock in the morning wasn't necessarily the time to be thinking about Westergaards and Flynn Riders, however. Tiana Dubòis had a bed to fall into. She climbed her creaky steps to her creaky front door and kicked her shoes off on the other side of it. Her feet were pitching a fit at her for being bled through all night long, so she drew her bathwater to quiet them down a little. Bathing, eating, and pressing her hair made her sleepier than she already was. She ignored the heartache under her blouse by shedding the day's blues off her and laying her mind down on her nice soft pillow.

There were no nightmares had about Naveen, or Charlotte, or even Mr. La Bouff, and her head was almost better for it. Unfortunately, what she did dream about was a slimy frog that kept trying to sweet-talk her into giving him some sugar. Saturday was yet another day at Cafe Du Monde and another disappointment at Velvet, but come midnight, Velvet was crazier than a hen running around with its head cut off.

"You see all them folks in that audience, Tee?" Troy Tucker asked her in the dish room. 

"Did I ever!" She emptied her dirty bus bin for him and wiped her forehead with her bracelet. "What's the special occasion t'night?" 

Like the kitchen, the dish room is full of Coloreds, so there was no need to glove on their "Yes, Massa" voices just yet.  

Tucker tossed his dish towel over his shoulder and dried his sudsy hands. "We got ourselves a new girl t'night." 

"New girl? She a colored girl?" 

"More like a _colorless_ girl." 

She held back a laugh. "Well, _that_ doesn't sound too healthy." 

Another busser by the name of Sammy Taylor got all up in their conversation to say, "She's a _white_ girl with a _sweet_ b'hind." 

"Peel off it, Taylor," Tucker told him, throwing his dish towel at him. 

Taylor caught it against his chest. "It ain't no phat b'hind,"―he wagged his finger―"but it ain't no flat b'hind like Rita Hayworth's, either."

"Taylor, peel off it―" 

"Both of y'all peel off it before Lars tans your yeller b'hinds wit' his belt," warned Mr. Campbell as he wheeled his bus cart between them. He was the oldest busser at Velvet, and he didn't play with all that foolishness. 

The fellas didn't backtalk Mr. Campbell because they knew he was only looking out for them, but she wanted to know more about the show Velvet was throwing on for Goldwater's finest. "So who exactly _is_ this mystery woman, Mista Campbell?"

"Elsa Westergaard."

She almost broke the plates she was stacking. "Elsa Westergaard?"

"Mm-hm."

"Y'mean, Hans Westergaard's wife?"

Mr. Campbell unloaded his bus cart without a care in the world. "That's her."

She laughed because she didn't know how else to respond to this fresh batch of foolishness. "Oh, but there must be some sorta mistake, Mista Campbell. Mrs. Westergaard isn't a showgirl! She's―"

"About to strip for Senator Osborne."

"..." Her brain just kept on regurgitating it. "That doesn't sound right." She shook her head. "That doesn't sound right at all." She'd seen Mrs. Westergaard once before in Velvet, but that night she was dining with Lars, and at no point did she ever give off the impression that she could step out of her dress for any man, much less her actual husband.

Why, Elsa Westergaard couldn't even step out of her own mind. The little woman, with her little woman smile and little woman manners, was square-toed to boot. She was the type of squared-toed little woman who cut everything on her plate into even-sliced pieces, chewed every bite more than half a dozen times. Then she would pat the corners of her smile with her napkin before folding her hands on the table like she was balancing an encyclopedia on top of her head. Her habits drove Odessa bananas because she kept asking for oral presentations on the ingredients in and preparations of Velvet's specials. 

By the time Mrs. Westergaard had finally ordered something other than a custom-made salad from Odessa, it turned out that the chef didn't follow her directions, so Odessa had to take it back. Apologetically sending back silverware and glassware for having the tiniest stains on them also got Mrs. Westergaard's first name cussed out behind the dish room's doors. The look on that little woman's face after she had sampled her remade herring was a sulky one, yet she sat there and ate it to keep the staff from getting fed up with her.

She really was a sweet little woman, but she was an uptight little woman, too. 

"Women like Mrs. Westergaard don't strip for senators, Mista Campbell."

"Poke your head out there and see for yourself, child."

So, she poked her head out there and saw for herself. Wasn't much to see just yet because the band was still setting up. She recognized Mr. Jackson's six brothers polishing their trumpets and Pettigrew Banks opening the piano under the stage. Mrs. Hicks and her two sisters were taking their positions as backup singers. The audience was eager for things to get going, particularly that baldheaded Senator Osborne.

She wondered if Hans Westergaard was using his wife's looks to get a leg up in Goldwater's politics. Her face wasn't beautiful like [Adrienne Ames](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/18/ae/c9/18aec9d50feafe88979091746f09ffd0--hollywood-actresses-hollywood-glamour.jpg) or somebody, but those blueberry eyes and buttercream locks beat together with that buttermilk skin and parsley-thin frame put her on the throne of white society's beauty standards. Whoever came up with the idea of "white" had that woman in mind, because Mrs. Westergaard is the whitest woman she's ever laid eyes on.

"So you're _well_ aware that I have a news column to write for tomorrow morning, right?" 

"Of course I am, monsieur, but you'll be singing my praises before the night ends."

"Well, here's to hoping."

"Here's to _knowing_."

Flynn Rider walked past Tiana with his new lady friend glittering on his arm. Tiana peeked between the curtains to watch them move closer to the center of the cabaret. Mr. Rider had himself together; all dressed down to the nines in a [burgundy tuxedo](https://www.milroystuxedos.com/content/images/thumbs/0000187_ike-behar-marbela.jpeg) without a hat, sharp as can be. His lady friend wore a [red open-backed dress](https://i.etsystatic.com/il/300928/261884501/il_570xN.261884501.jpg) that loosely draped her bite-sized figure. They looked expensive together. 

"The main attraction is on stage, Tiana."

She jumped out of her skin and spun all the way around in what was left of it, pressing her gloved hands against her poor little heart. "M...M-Mista Westergaard!" She may as well have dropped dead from a heart attack after taking one look into Lars Westergaard's face. 

He said not one word, just stood there looking. He was looking at her with those "new eyes," which are eyes that're seeing a colored woman as a woman for the very first time. It might've been because she had on too much makeup that night, or got her hair pressed too pretty, or wore a [flapper dress](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2714/9310/products/Unique_Vintage_1920s_Grey_Beaded_Sequin_Juliette_Fringe_Flapper_Dress_1_4622060d-7423-4668-af0e-06d0fe07772a_2048x2048.jpg?v=1517013440) that was too nice.

Whatever the reason, she wanted no parts of the results. "I...I was just..."―she backed up, only stopping because her behind had hit a French vase―"headin' right on back out to the dish room, Mista Westergaard―" 

"Nonsense." Lars breathed in his cigarette before breathing it out. The smoke curling around him framed his eyes like a fog framing a demon's, painting an awful picture of his spirit. "I want you to enjoy the show, Miss Dupre."

 _'What're you callin' me Miss Dupre for?'_ "Sir? But why on Earth would you want me to do that?"

"Are you questioning me, girl?" There he went, getting salty. 

The announcer on stage was already introducing Mrs. Westergaard. Then the lights dimmed, and all she could see were Lars's green eyes in the dark. He looked like the Devil. All those Westergaards look like the Devil. Shoot, the Devil is probably they daddy. 

"Sir, I should really―"

"Mr. Westergaard, èske ou fimen?"

She didn't look behind her.

Lars smiled with his teeth at whoever was standing back there. "I'll follow you in a moment, Darling." 

She tried to hold herself away from him as he slid past her to join his good time girl, Josephine LaFleur. He didn't bother her after that because his eyes had Josephine's rump to burn holes into. The performance they sat down for started off with tambourines, basses, and trumpets that got folks' shoulders swinging. Pettigrew Banks really went all out on his piano. The band stopped when blue confetti came raining down from the ceiling under a blue spotlight that lit the heart of the cabaret.

Everybody heard Mrs. Westergaard before they saw her, and the minute they saw her, you'd think that they'd never seen a showgirl on an [aerial swing](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51btkGJD0mL.jpg) before...but it _was_ hard to deny that the Misses could cause a plane crash or two from way up there. [Dripping in swarovski crystals, Mrs. Westergaard wore a one-shoulder gown that you could see straight through](https://media.glamour.com/photos/592729559de46a1a15ade289/master/w_1024,c_limit/GettyImages-688304856%2520\(1\).jpg) without looking too hard. The fabric was so see-through that it had plenty in common with a spiderweb glittering from morning dew. Luckily, all those crystals hid the offensive parts of her chest, and her lower half was covered by silver briefs, which you could've peeped clearly from her hip-high slit.

The [hair clip on the side of her coiffure was a big ol' shimmering wreath of crystal flowers](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2112/2713/products/Bridal_headband_HB_19255_SCL-1_720x.jpg?v=1519424059) that Mama would've liked. If you gazed at that girl long enough, you'd think you were gazing at a moving body of stars. Then she did something like an upside down [attitude allongé](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/b8/82/fb/b882fbb498bb94b155a602abde27fb86--ballet-dancers-ballerinas.jpg) or [arabesque ](https://i0.wp.com/aballeteducation.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/tumblr_m6gd6jnze91qhf2mwo1_1280.png?ssl=1)on the swing ― one of those ballerina positions that Mama used to take her to the theater for. Mrs. Westergaard nailed it by arching her back, bending the knee of her raised leg behind her body, and pointing the other foot at the ceiling. People were rightfully mesmerized by her grace.

She was a whole lion-maned Aphrodite who didn't favor Mrs. Westergaard at all. The swing lowered her into the audience as she sang her intro like a flirty feline. Men in shimmery white tuxedos helped her off her contraption and placed her on Mr. Weselton’s tabletop. The crowd got a kick out of that. Winking at poor Mr. Weselton, she strutted across the tables lined up in front of her with the blue followspot still on her. 

Fellas were so overwhelmed by how close she was that they couldn’t do much else except gawk at the sparkly stilettos crushing their napkins. One hooligan was cocky enough to actually get up and stand in her way. Instead of being startled, Mrs. Westergaard wrapped his tie around her wrist and slid down onto her bottom. His eyes sat between her legs as she parted them on his tablecloth. Crooning all soft-like about wanting a lover to come closer to her, she reeled him in.

The youngin tried to bury his face into her neck and grope her fanny, but she playfully shoved him off before he could get too friendly on her. Smirking, Mrs. Westergaard shook her finger at him. He seemed satisfied with getting his hair ruffled by her hand. Catcallers opened up the floor for her to be let on through. Over half of the cabaret was on its feet clapping to the music.

When the song reached a verse about being toyed with by a love interest, she pretended to be a fainting damsel who needed catching, and about five hopeless men caught her. They heaved her body way up high above their heads and carried her to the stage like ants. As soon as she was set down, a parade of burlesque girls came up behind her. Mrs. Westergaard joined them in their leg-kicking choreography. Tony went crazy on the drums and cymbals for the chorus, and Mr. Jackson's brothers were killing their trumpets.

Mrs. Westergaard had a big voice for such a little woman, but the Hicks sisters helped her keep the shouting parts afloat. The whole cabaret transformed into a choir. However, there were still a few rascals thirsting after Mrs. Westergaard's attentions by hanging off the edge of the stage. She made spanking her feather fan against her hip a part of her dance routine to get them laughing. The female dancers turned around and held onto each other's derrieres as they rolled their hips, flashing folks with their unmentionables.

Mrs. Westergaard was part of the line, but her dress already had her tail on display; her dancers just accentuated that tail by feeling up on it when she threw it in a circle. 

_'Jesus, please take the wheel and burn it along with this cabaret.'_

Speaking of Jesus and sinners, Flynn Rider was sweating like a sinner in church. She figured as much from the way he kept toweling his face and drawing air crosses on himself. His lady friend didn't seem to fuss over his mini breakdown. Mrs. Westergaard's next verse came with her feeling up on herself so men could fantasize about her hand being their hands. Judging by Flynn's reaction, she didn't have to worry about minds wandering elsewhere for the rest of the night. 

Mr. Rider watched her palms trace her hips and go into her hair as she tilted her head back, flashing all that sweat glistening on her throat like body glitter. He had to turn away from the stage to rehydrate himself. 

_'Poor Mista Rida.'_

Considering Flynn's title as Velvet's heartthrob, the whole thing was funny as all get out, but it was Mr. Weselton who ended up being the jitterbug to get singled out by Mrs. Westergaard. She sashayed off that stage with a finger winding around her curl and circled that man's chair like he was something to look at. His body went stiffer than a dead squirrel's when she touched the back of his neck. He split his legs just in time for her heel to hit the bottom of his seat. Having her whole entire leg in his face was just too much for his blood pressure.

Mrs. Westergaard's curled finger beckoned him to join her on the dance floor. She got more than she bargained for because Mr. Weselton had two left feet and not one ounce of rhythm in either. He didn't seem to understand that this here wasn't a tango party, so his unfortunate dance partner had to suffer through a few dips and twirls. Needing to stand back and sing her bridge saved her life without hurting his feelings. 

Senator Osborne was having the night of his forty year old life on the other hand. His reason didn't waste any time showing him how much she appreciated his attendance. Men were left catching thrown pieces of Mrs. Westergaard's costume like bridesmaids leaping for wedding bouquets as she headed for Osborne. The stage crew seemed to get the picture by putting one spotlight on her and another on him. Standing tall on his table, she let out a loud vocal run that clearly came from being in a Colored church or two.

“Who'd a thought that Mrs. Westergaard could blow, Tiana?!” Troy Tucker yelled in her ear.

"Tuh! Who'd a thought that Mrs. Westergaard would be shakin' tail?!" 

Tucker laughed. "I know that's right!" 

Spellbound, Osborne stood up from his chair and took his cigar out of his mouth to get a better look at Mrs. Westergaard's glitter-painted face. This time around, her choreography was less about her having fun and more about her locking down her prospects ― or her husband's prospects. The song tapered off into a steamy cappella so that Osborne would only have her echoing in his mind. Those hips she had got to swinging real slow while her hands trailed up her thighs real sensual, and those sultry eyes she wore never peeled off Osborne's. Her silver briefs fell to her ankles, revealing the [crystal thong](https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4230/35646243755_569285b5ac_o.jpg) underneath.

"Lawd have mercy!" Tucker exclaimed. 

The blonde kicked off her briefs and Mr. Osborne caught them.

"... _No_ she didn't." 

Mrs. Westergaard unclasped her gown from the shoulder, and everyone watched it waterfall off her body like diamonds spilling out around her heels. Mr. Rider made the sound of a dying animal. The only things standing between Mrs. Westergaard's nakedness and Mr. Osborne were her thong and [nipple pasties](https://img.etsystatic.com/il/d14156/1064685947/il_570xN.1064685947_gnut.jpg?version=0).

"Aw'right, that's it! That's it, that is _it_ , that is _it_! Tucka,  _I've_ had enough for one night―"

"Speak for y'self, Tiana!" 

But she stuck around long enough to see Mrs. Westergaard offer her hand to Senator Osborne. He pulled it to slide her off his table and into his lap.

Mrs. Westergaard twisted her body around and draped her arm around his shoulders, purring the last of her throaty lyrics into his face, "I'll be yours~..."

Mr. Osborne smiled softheartedly at her like a man who was proud of his girl. She grinned back and tapped him on the nose. Hats and heels were flung up in the air as Velvet applauded this married woman for perverting their married lives. Mr. Rider was the only man not clapping. Senator Osborne put his hat on Mrs. Westergaard's head and carried her off bridal style.

Mrs. Westergaard waved at her applauders with it, eyes as bright as a young girl's. That's all she really was: a girl, and anybody with sense would've seen that if they had watched her mask drop once Osborne got her to the hallway. People simmered down after she left the room along with all that heat she'd brought. Betty White was on next to do her non-singing striptease, and everyone just went back to normal. Everyone except _her_ and Mr. Rider, that is.

Poor Flynn couldn't take his eyes off the exit Mrs. Westergaard had gone through with Mr. Osborne because he had a hero complex, but Tiana couldn't shame him for it tonight. She understood him too much. 

"I guess Mrs. Westergaard is Mista Osborne's wife t'night, Tiana," Tucker said with pity in his heart. 

"Who'd a thought?" she mumbled sadly.    


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

## Sugarless Beignets

* * *

Velvet's wee hours died off slower than a honeybee without its stinger. Movie stars who'd come on down for Mrs. Westergaard's tenderloins didn't stay for Betty White, Autumn Brown, or Dirty Martini because those girls weren't fresh meat. A few stragglers still noodled around the diner in hopes of catching a gander of the blue-eyed showgirl one last time, but it was common sense that Mrs. Westergaard would stay stuck up there in one of those VIP rooms until Mr. Osborne got through doing his business. That business made Tiana’s insides sit in her stomach like curdled milk in a glass dairy bottle, but she couldn't pour them out to her skinfolk because Mr. Campbell would've broken into her with:

"Keep your heart in the alley where you left it, Tiana. That white woman ain't your bid'ness."

In a sense, Mr. Campbell would've been right: Elsa Westergaard wasn't her business. None of these women are. They sure as spice don’t make her theirs, so she told herself to mind the nose between her eyes by keeping her head down and clearing empty tables like she'd been hired to do. It was all she could do to keep her heart from collapsing on top of her pride because according to her sixth sense Mr. Campbell would've been dead wrong. White or green, Mrs. Westergaard was still a woman, and as another woman, her womanly fiber felt for hers being torn open by Velvet's meat hooks.

"But could you count on that white woman to feel for yours?" Mr. Campbell would've planted.

In all fairness, she wouldn't have known how to answer his question. Maybe there really was no moral tug-of-war between the two angles ― just feelings versus reality. Ultimately, if you can't help yourself in a world that wasn't made for you, then you can't help someone whose blonde head was made for it. Tiana kept that cartoned on the top shelf of her brain as she handled Velvet's greasy dishes and even greasier egos in the dead of morning. Her shift was just about over when the greasiest egomaniac of them all had sent for her.

"Y'wanted ta' see me, Mista Westergaard?"  

Lars Westergaard only had a mind to ogle the stack of green cheddar he was shuffling. There was enough cash in those satin-gloved hands to burn a wet mule. The presidential suite that roomed him came with a bartender, one leather couch, two dance poles, a glass coffee table, and an ocean view. Josephine LaFleur was sitting between his legs on the floor in her underthings with a wineglass while he sat on the couch in his suit. Neither Westergaard's pants nor his shirt were buttoned all the way, making it easy to guess what he'd just got done doing, yet Josephine had the nerve to call herself mean-mugging Tiana like  _her_  presence was offensive.

 _'Bless her man-eatin' lil' heart. If brains were leather, this girl wouldn't have enough to saddle a junebug.'_ Tiana considered turning tail right there just so she'd never have to share oxygen with these moray eels again.  _'Lord, give me strength.'_

"Mr. La Bouff once told me that you were the best beignet baker in Goldwater," Lars unpacked. 

She should've followed her first mind. "M...Mista La Bouff?" It's not enough to say that fear had sucked the brown out of her. As far as she knew, all her dirty laundry was about to be hung out to dry.

"Is he right?" 

She managed to get her blood flowing again, but her heartbeat wasn't the same. "I...I suppose I...know my _onions_ , sir."

"Splendid." Lars tucked a dollar bill into Josephine's bra.

Tiana rightfully started making faces.  _'Just nasty.'_

"My baby brother is throwing a birthday bash for his wife tomorrow, and he needs a top-of-the-line beignet baker to bus her way to Greenstone Peninsula on rather short notice. I offered your services because you don't work for me on Sundays."

She was as lost as last year's Easter egg. "Offa'ed my  _services_? Wit...out my  _p'mission_?"

Lars finally looked at her because her gumption had struck him on the ego like a tree branch. "Are you not free from me on Sunday night?"

She hated the way he worded that mess, but she owed it to Mama to calm down. "Why yes, sir. I very much am, but see―"

"Then it's settled." This man right here could make a bishop mad enough to kick in stained glass windows. 

"Mista Westergaard, I don't think y'unda'stand. Y'see, I'm tied to visit a friend Sunday afternoon." A whiter lie has never slipped through her teeth. She was only tied to phone Mama because Sunday was the one day out of the week that allowed her some midday time with Mama and Auntie Claudia. She also wasn't against reeling in more money, but if she planned on going fishing for green trout, she needed Lars to make sure he knew that he couldn't pass her around like sugar beignets in a five-star bakery whenever he felt like it.

Lars took Josephine's wineglass out of her hand and snapped his fingers at her. Bewildered, the good time girl got up and went to get her ego refilled by the flirty bartender. This is what Tiana meant by Janie Thatcher having not one working taste bud on his slick tongue. The yellowbone was stuck up higher than a light pole yet dumber than a box of rocks.

"You won't be working till dawn, Dubòis," Lars remembered to mention. "The party ends at nine, and they'll pay you handsomely for your time. If your beignets are well received, you'll be asked back for bigger and better opportunities."

 _'Well, then butter my b'hind and call me a biscuit!'_ Tiana didn't do too well at hiding her dimples. _'This could be my lucky break afta all!'_

"Do I have your permission?"

Tiana bit her fingernail. She didn't want to look as hungry as she felt for that extra bread, but she didn't have room in her stomach to reject a plate. 

"I'm talking to you, girl."

She rested her hand on her chest and nodded with a grin, having wrung out all her hesitations. "Y'have my p'mission, Mista Westergaard!"

"Spectacular." Lars buttoned his dress shirt to make himself decent. "What is your dress size?"

"Beg ya' pardon, sir?" She wasn't keen on him asking about anything that had to do with her figure.

Lars looked at her plainly. "For the job. A uniform will be waiting for you in the morning."

"Oh." _'For Heaven's sake, these Westergaards are so moneyed up that they would buy a new boat if they got the other one wet.'_  "Well, in that case, I'm a size two."

"Two." Lars looked through her clothes. "Swell." He thankfully looked back down on his hundreds. "All the details are there for you." His hand motioned to the piece of paper on his coffee table.

It was high time for her to make a clean exit. "I appreciate you puttin' in a good word fo' me, Mista Westergaard," she said as she was sliding the paper to her end of the table.

He didn't stare at her. "Think nothing of it."

A rainbow flock of tail-feathered women were strutting in from the entrance she came through.

Lars pointed an unlit cigar to the vestibule towards the back of the room. "See yourself out that way." He didn't have to tell her twice. 

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir! Oh, and thank ya' again fo' all ya' trouble, Mista Westergaard!" Tiana held onto her feathered headdress and got to scooting on out. Although his vestibule felt like it went on for miles, the emptiness was much more pleasant than the company of Lars Westergaard and his hussies. Neither desserts lasted for long after she’d passed a certain hallway that could hardly contain the nasty noises behind its doors; she had to mute them out by thinking about the taste of Daddy's gumbo on cool Saturday nights.

On her way to the bus stop, she spotted Mrs. Westergaard leaving Velvet from the front. The married showgirl was wearing her hair in a bun and a [fluffy fur coat](https://www.flickr.com/photos/53035820@N02/5749543801/in/photostream) that swallowed her up. Despite all that money keeping her body company, her eyes looked lonesome. Behind her tornadoed none other than Flynn Rider; he appeared to be reeling off to her about something that she wouldn't hang an ear for. Just when she got close enough to her [white Pierce-Arrow limo](https://www.arrowvintagecars.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/1930-pierce-arrow-exterior.jpg), Mr. Rider blocked her way to desperately beg her to see his.

Whatever he gibber-jabbered made Mrs. Westergaard listen. Then after she was finished listening, she uttered a few words to the cement under her crystal heels. Rider dug into his breast pocket and pulled out a card for her to take. She read it between her satin-gloved fingertips before frowning up at him. He moved out of her way with his arms held out, gesturing for her to carry on like a so-called gentleman.

Mrs. Westergaard boarded her limo without looking back. Mr. Rider watched it leave until it was out of sight. His lady friend approached him with a smitten smile, which was a rather odd accessory to wear for a lady friend, but maybe they had some sort of arrangement that snuffed out normal feelings like jealousy. A bystander who'd seen everything would've assumed that Mr. Rider was just trying to rope Mrs. Westergaard into an appointment. His hero complex needn't apply to that.

Mr. Rider returned his lady friend's smile with the highest wattage he could muster. Convinced by his pearly whites, she took him by the arm and walked him around the corner. Tiana's stomach turned like the wheels on Mr. Rider's [Auburn Speedster](https://3yy99h37852i3slvqm21o8q6-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/031-DSC_0395-copy-900x564.jpg). It had dawned on her that Hans Westergaard was throwing a birthday party for his wife the day after he'd farmed out her tenderloins to the highest bidding steak-eater.

 _'What a lowdown dirty dog,'_ she reminded herself. _'If I had a husband as ugly as him, I'd shave his behind and make 'im walk backward.'_ To remember that she was off to work for the same man she was cursing gave her a lungful of blues, but the color green had already dyed her conscience green. Even if Hans Westergaard was no diamond of the first water, she needed his money and his connections more than she needed her scruples. The open sores she had to soak when she got home from bleeding her feet out agreed with her.

Come Sunday afternoon, Tiana Dubòis was busier than a cat covering up poop on a marble floor. The Westergaard mansion was more of a [Transylvanian castle](https://scontent-lax3-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/20216_491611414340594_2252826695574785001_n.jpg?_nc_cat=0&oh=472e5f378fe2afec4b496e4d2af33cd4&oe=5BB983A6) on the outside than a regular Goldwateran chateau, though the inside looked just like what she wanted her restaurant to be: elegant and luxurious. People from all around the world had flown into Goldwater for this event. She convinced herself that there would be plenty of thrills and hopefully no spills to write home about. The chipper Hans Westergaard became her top marketer.

Now, there's no denying that Westergaard men are lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut, but their public personalities were like chalk and cheese. Hans, for example, was kinder to her black hands than Lars was; he wanted to know everything there was to know about what those hands could do on a stove even though he'd only hired her for baking beignets. He had also been raised right enough to ask her if she liked her uniform. Miss Gerda had squeezed her scrawny behind into a [sequined gold flapper dress](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2714/9310/products/Unique_Vintage_1920s_Seafoam_Antique_Gold_Beaded_Bayou_Flapper_Dress_6_1024x1024.jpg?v=1516358069) that fluttered just above her knees. The little black girl from Honeyville could practically feel the hundreds of thousands of dollars rubbing against her cocoa bean skin.

Still and all, that same little black girl wouldn't have walked across the street to piss on Hans if he'd caught on fire. She hoped that his wife would never squat for him, either. At the moment, Mrs. Westergaard was too busy cupcaking with gray-haired Democrats to think twice about his whereabouts. Her [diamond-collared halter gown](https://www.dhresource.com/webp/m/0x0s/f2-albu-g6-M01-D7-E8-rBVaSFoyXpuAOlaCAADh2zlYsl4251.jpg/evening-dress-yousef-aljasmi-kim-kardashian-halter-beaded-tassels-hi-lo-almoda-gianninaazar-zuhlair-murad-ziadnakad.jpg) was so slinky that Tiana could see her religion. A pastor might've forgiven her for showing as much skin as she did because Goldwater summers are hotter than a goat's behind in a pepper patch, but folks who saw the difference between "Elsa the Showgirl" and "Mrs. Westergaard" would've wondered if her husband made her put that thing on with all its beaded tassels and champagne glitter.

Mrs. Westergaard's bare sternum even had her whole under-boob cleavage hanging free, for crying out loud. God-fearing men didn't know where to look. Tiana didn't have time to focus on what Mrs. Westergaard was saying to them in race debates because she had her own senior audience to apple-polish.

"These beignets are diabolically good. Whatever is your name, girl?"

She slapped on her gooiest smile. "Tiana, sir! Tiana Dubòis!" 

"I'll be swooping back in for you soon, Dubòis." The multimillionaire who'd been singing her praises smelled bad enough to gag a maggot, but she grinned in his face because his mind might've been ripe enough to take her on in the future since Mr. La Bouff hadn't poisoned it. With her sugar beignets in both napkins, he walked away happier than O'Malley chewing up a big ol' catfish head on Mama's porch.

She was so hungry that she could eat the north end of a south-bound goat all on her own, but she was better off not stuffing her face with the same sweets Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard's guests were munching on. On the outdoor patio sat the birthday girl herself. Before she arrived home for her husband's big surprise, Mrs. Westergaard had gotten her lion mane cut into a [long bob](http://bakuland.net/wp-content/uploads/parser/GRACE-KELLY-hairstyle--4.jpg) with backcombed bangs and cinnamon roll curls. "I'm a woman now," the hairstyle told everyone. Her diamond waterfall earrings brought out her cat eyes to show how much one night had aged her.

Mascara and pink lip gloss kept Mrs. Westergaard's face from looking too old to the men who would age her even faster; but she was as pretty as a picture just the same, and she warmed that outdoor sofa like one stuck behind glass, never to be touched by the onlookers who stood around marveling at her. Truth be told, Mrs. Westergaard didn't know half the folks marveling at her. They were just there to thank her husband for exhibiting such a Mona Lisa. Mr. Rider, who'd popped into a five-personed conversation with his Saturday night lady friend hanging off his arm, stopped drinking his champagne to eye Mrs. Westergaard from the sidelines. The married showgirl was smiling softly at the garden band as its singer crooned ["But Not For Me" by the Gershwin Brothers.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHyfMASwxyk)

The way Mr. Rider smiled at her wistful smile and blinked all slow differed from how he was looking at her last night. He was fixing to spark a conversation between them, but Hans walked into the frame first. He sat down in front of his pretty picture and cheesed at her. Nothing moved on Mrs. Westergaard except her eyes, which looked like they wanted to cry from exhaustion, but she still gave her husband a Mona Lisa smile. He pulled a loose curl behind her shoulder and stroked her chin.

Mrs. Westergaard turned her head with closed eyes. She had that tragic beauty cliche down. Her husband moved in close and whispered in her ear, kissing the pink shell. She opened her eyes to him taking her glass off the patio table and walking away with it. She watched him till he had gone on inside the house.

Mrs. Westergaard drew herself up and glided over to the dessert table, moving like a body of stars even on land. Tiana Dubòis had to get her act together and smile for the birthday girl coming her way. For no good reason, Mrs. Westergaard stood in front of her beignets and debated over whether or not she wanted to pick one up. Off-stage, the little woman was notorious for having too many thoughts in her head at once, so Tiana tried to help her get out from underneath them:

"Hello there, Mrs. Westergaard!"

Her salutations got the little woman to look up, but Mrs. Westergaard's second thought was to judge her flapper dress before fixing her lips into a lukewarm smile. She folded her hands down in front of her and greeted her with a polite nod. Believe it or not, what Mrs. Westergaard wasn't famous for was saying much.

"Happy 21st birthday!"

"Thank you."

Tiana never paid any mind to Mrs. Westergaard's speaking voice before then, but those two small words were only a smidgen louder than snowflakes hitting the grass. The reviews about this little woman owning a nice set of pipes would've made naysayers slap their knees and laugh. As a matter of fact, Tiana Dubòis was curious to know which woman was the real one: the vociferous showgirl or the voiceless wife.

"I can't thank you enough for helping my husband make tonight pleasant for me." One thing for sure was that she was an awfully bad actress.

"It was no hassle at all, Mrs. Westergaard! Would ya' like a beignet to sweeten up y'night?" Tiana was about to put some more meat on Mrs. Westergaard's bones. "These right ova' here are still nice an' warm!" 

Here was where Mrs. Westergaard's eyes widened with delight. She looked like she was getting ready to consider making herself happy just this once before Mr. Westergaard touched her waist out of nowhere.

"Elsa," Hans murmured like a disappointed father who was still sympathetic to his daughter's shortcomings, "you _know_ you're not supposed to be having sugar beignets."

"I only wanted a bite," Mrs. Westergaard explained without really protesting at all. She held her arms to hug herself. "I haven't eaten all night."

Appalled by the whole exchange, Tiana zeroed in on Mrs. Westergaard's figure again. Her body really did look like food had been withheld from it regularly. She may have flaunted an hourglass, but she wouldn't let it fill out where it wanted to fill out, specifically in those thighs and that waist. White women are always self-conscious about getting too much junk in the trunk; Tiana had already heard a few white men say that out of all Mrs. Westergaard's "feminine traits," they cared for her "round behind" the least. They wanted that thing flat and narrow so that when she turned to the side, she'd look like a zipper.

It's no enigma that the thinner you are the higher you are in society, but Tiana Dubòis always found it bizarre how white men ― particularly European white men like Hans ― turned emaciation into a beauty standard for their women. It probably had more to do with just finding yet another way of controlling them.

"Let me introduce you to Éloïse Orléans before we have dinner with Senator Osborne later on tonight," Hans lulled. What a cotton-mouthed snake he was. He guided his poisoned wife back to the patio's sofas by the beignet table, where Mr. Rider was lounging with his lady friend.

Mr. Rider didn't hesitate to smarten himself up as soon as the paler couple was past the arbor. He also didn't show a lick of inappropriate interest in Mrs. Westergaard, but he couldn't help acting starstruck by how she looked in the starlight. Mrs. Westergaard's razzle-dazzle done dazzled him to death.

"And this is  _mon prince charmant_ ," Tiana caught Éloïse Orléans bragging to Mrs. Westergaard in French, "Flynn Rider."

Mr. Rider stood up in front of Mrs. Westergaard and adjusted the black bow tie on his white tuxedo like a first-time news reporter being pushed in front of a camera.

Mrs. Westergaard stared at Éloïse Orléans with a tense smile before flicking her eyes to Mr. Rider without moving her head. Then she turned her head straight and smiled wider for him without showing any teeth. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rider."

The owner of that caddy name offered his hand. "The pleasure's all mine," he gently insisted, trying to get his deep voice to seep under her skin and caress her ovaries.

Mrs. Westergaard looked at Mr. Rider's palm before eventually deciding to surrender her hand to him, making their fate lines touch. Staring at her face to make the silence significant between them, Mr. Rider held her fingertips like a prince arching a queen's wrist, but the flirt in him would've kissed it if they had been alone. The little woman let go first. Looking up and finding his gaze on her face made her look down without lowering her chin. The hand that'd been in Mr. Rider's slipped into the opening between Hans's arm and waist to hold his elbow pit.

Hans raised his arm and patted his wife's knuckles in appreciation. Mr. Rider watched all that body language go down like he wanted to come between them. He turned an artificially unhostile grin to Mr. Westergaard and shook the Danish hound's paw, raving about all the good he'd heard. When they got around to what Mr. Rider did for coins, Mr. Westergaard julienned the information into digestible portions:

"A journalist!  _This_  should be interesting," Hans said as they sat down. "And what is it that you would like to pry from our lives, exactly? The story of how Elsa became the most talked about starlet in all of Goldwater in only a matter of hours?" 

"Well, I..." Mr. Rider rubbed his hands together and glanced at Mrs. Westergaard.

Mrs. Westergaard didn't take her eyes off him this time around. 

"... _Yes_ , actually." Mr. Rider smiled at Mr. Westergaard like he didn't want to be sitting across from him. "That's exactly right." He looked back at Mrs. Westergaard. "It'll be a splendid way of letting the public get to know you while your name is in lights."

"Promotion," Hans paraphrased.

"I prefer to call it accessibility," Mr. Rider corrected. He made sure to keep talking directly to Mrs. Westergaard. "We can talk about your background, or...how you evolved into such a powerhouse singer. Maybe perhaps we can  _also_ get into what goes on underneath that crystal hairpiece of yours after Velvet's curtains close."

Limbo saturated Mrs. Westergaard's eyes.

Her husband frowned at her without unwinding his smile. "That's quite an offer," he said for her. "We'll sleep on it. How does that sound?"

Mr. Rider patted his knees. "Stupendous!"

Mr. Westergaard nodded. "Then we'll be keeping in touch."

Mr. Rider was quiet because he wasn't done staring at Mrs. Westergaard, but she was done staring at him. He sat up and clasped his hands together. " _Well_ , I should, d'ah...― _we_  should...let the two of you enjoy the rest of your evening. It was  _lovely_  meeting you both." He took turns shaking hands with the Westergaards.

"Come then, Mr. Rider," Éloïse Orléans interrupted. "Mrs. White is flagging us down." His lady friend spooned in a few more cinnamony words before taking him to a circle of wives who were stirred up by his fineness.

While Mr. Rider cupcaked with them against his will, the Westergaards kept their eyes peanut-buttered to his back.

 "Do you know what to do with a bloodhound looking for a scent?" Hans asked his wife.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Some of my keys have stopped working on my laptop's keyboard, so I don't know when I'll be writing again. I'll attempt to use a pad whenever I can. Also, I do love reviews, so never be afraid to send a greeting my way.

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## Ground Cinnamon

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Mrs. Westergaard said nothing to her husband. Her husband eyeballed her to figure out why his doormat wasn't unrolling at his feet.

The little woman wouldn't return his glance. Remarkably, she got up from that sofa and told him flat out, "I've had enough for one night." There was a cupful of courage egging her voice, and Tiana enjoyed every ounce of it.

Even so, because she'd been rubbing elbows with Lars for so long, Tiana half-expected Mr. Westergaard to get salty on the Misses.

He surprised the skin off Tiana's ankles by suggesting, " _Perhaps_  it would be best if we closed the gates for the evening." He comforted his wife by stroking her elbows, which were about the only things he could touch seeing how tightly she had her arms wrapped around herself. "I can send everyone home  _right_  this instant." Affection buttered his voice to make him sound closer to a passionate lover who'd do anything in the whole wide world for his princess.

"No," Mrs. Westergaard told him with less bass than before, but she didn't look too in love with him touching on her arms the way he was. "It's fine. I just need to lie down for a few minutes."

Mr. Westergaard smiled compassionately and lifted her chin to make her look at him. "Then I won't stand in your way." He kissed her fresh on the lips.

Mrs. Westergaard took the kiss like she had to take it. She searched her husband's eyes after he pulled back.

"Happy Birthday," he threw in.

"...Is it?"

His smile got washed away.

―"Mrow!"

"Oh!" Tiana dropped her attention like a stick of butter and gasped when it landed on a white cat. "Oh. Well, hi there!" she giggled, bending over to get a better look at the lovely grand duchess's diamond collar. "Where did you come from, you pretty lil' thing?"

The grand duchess walked between Tiana's legs, rubbing her good manners all up against her calves. She was as cute as a button, she was.

"Aren't you precious?" Tiana felt like she was knee-high to a grasshopper again as her childhood love for felines got the best of her. "Have  _you_  been inside that  _big_  ol' house all by yourself this whole time?"

"Mrow~!" 

"I'll take  _that_  as a yes. Y'know somethin'? Mista O'Malley would've given his left ear to see a pretty picture like you in our neck of the woods."

"Mrow~!"

Deep down, Tiana wanted to pet the feline and play with her, but she couldn't do either because that would've meant walking away from the beignet stand to wash her hands afterwards. She wasn't allowed to abandon her food station unless she absolutely had to, so she decided that she absolutely didn't have to pet that cat. "I'm sorry I don't have any shrimp fo' ya'! I would've smuggled some if I'd known the grand duchess was blessin' me with her presence t'night."

Miss Aristocat didn't seem to mind. A lot like her blue-eyed owner, she sashayed over to the now empty patio and climbed up on the sofa to be a part of the scenery.

"Mmph, mmph, mmph." Tiana shook her head, amused by her gumption. "Well, at least somebod _y_  can do as she pleases in this household."

" _Look_  at  _you_!" An awfully familiar escalatored up her spine. " _Aren't_  you just a sight for sore eyes?"

Tiana restocked her patience to turn around and humor her ambusher. "Well, hello again, Mista Rida."

Whatever rapture he felt moldered. " _About_  that honorific..." Mr. Rider leaned across her beignet plate to tell her behind his hand like nobody else would overhear him saying, "You don't  _have_  to keep calling me "Mr. Rider" whenever it's just us. It's... _discomforting_."

 _'Happy_ _ta' know you're out here thinkin' of your discomfort over mine._ ' "Well, I hadn't planned on it bein' "just us" outside of that  _one_  and  _only_  coincidence, Mista Rida."

Almost immediately, Mr. Rider acted like he was apologetic. "Thhhaaat's not what I meant by that. What I meant was―"

" _Mm_ -hm." Tiana got to snowing sugar over her beignets and happily ignoring whatever sugar Mr. Rider thought he could snow her with.

"No, really." He watched her, intensely impressed by her handwork. " _I've_  actually been meaning to run into you again ever since we last met so that we could, d'um..."

"I'm listenin'."

"Talk! So that we could talk―"

"We're talkin' right now, aren't we?"

All the chinwagging on her side of the backyard stopped. About five or six white men sneered at her for sassing another white man in public. She hadn't meant to sass anybody. It's just that Mr. Rider was so palsy-walsy with people regardless of color that he had teased the real Tiana out of her in that moment.

Unlike the politicians behind him, Mr. Rider didn't react negatively to her honesty. He read the horror on her face and looked back at the other men. "Care for a sugar beignet or two?" he asked, attempting to distract them from their own thinking. "You'll never taste one better!"

"We'll decline," Mr. Osborne answered as if to stop his colleagues from calling her an uppity black female dog in front of the whole beehive.

As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, Tiana watched them for a little while longer before getting back to sugaring her beignets. She couldn't keep her hands steady because her heart felt weaker than her wrists. One more wrong move like that and she would've found herself hanging from a willow tree. What she hated most in times like these was how much her dignity had to be boned by white men just for the rest of her to make it through the day in one piece.

The folks staring her down finally went to a side of the backyard where Mr. Westergaard was making a speech about his wife's retirement.

"Miss Dubòis," Mr. Rider restarted, "after you're done here with this squalid crowd, would you be willing to consider having a conversation with me over the phone next Sunday morning at ten o'clock? I have something very important that I want to discuss with you."

This swarthy-skinned man caught Tiana so off guard by fixing his lips to say her last name that she almost burned herself on the spot. "How do you know my last name, Mista Rida?" she asked carefully. "Did the Westergaards tell you? Or did Mista La Bouff pay you ta' darken my footsteps?" The second option scared the living daylights out of her.

"Neither. I promise you," Mr. Rider swore sincerely.

Her heartbeat was still noisier than a Honeyville drummer band. "Then how come you know my last name, Mista Rida?"

"Well," he stalled, "it took me a while to figure out why I knew your first." His serious eyes telegrammed a message she couldn't make out.

Mr. Westergaard's guests started clapping, but Mr. Rider didn't blink once. He was a different person in the face ― a pensive person ― with gleaming eyes and a mature line for a mouth. He looked like a real man instead of some cheap cad.

The vibe between she and him changed, but Tiana couldn't put her finger on the direction it was taking. She was more confused than ever before. "What're you saying―"

"Monsieur Rider?" Éloïse Orléans interjected herself into their business.

Mr. Rider leaned off Tiana's table and wiped his mouth to reveal a phony smile for his lady friend. " _Hel_ -lo, Pumpkin. Where'd  _you_  run off to?" He pulled her close, being that boyish cad again.

"Nowhere near as interesting as the food station." His lady friend hugged his arm against her silicone cleavage and smiled directly at Tiana as she asked him, "Is everything alright?"

"Finer than frog hair split four ways," Mr. Rider cheerfully claimed, but Tiana tasted the bittersweetness in it. He wanted to stay at that food station.

"Then let me introduce you to Candy Sorbet," Éloïse proposed. "She's been dying for a column."

Mr. Rider wasn't all that happy to hear that. "Oh, I'll  _bet_  she has."

Éloïse gave Tiana a funny little once-over before pulling her sometimes-man where she wanted him to go.

"Think about it," Mr. Rider mouthed to Tiana as he bobbed his chin at the business card siting on her tablecloth.

She didn't get a moment to think too long because her beignets got mighty popular within the next five minutes. Rich white women hung around to ask for her services on holidays and so-and-so's birthdays. Her dress pockets were stuffed with numbers from every part of town. It was a dream come true. By eight-thirty, she was fresh out of dough.

This was a blessing in disguise because Tiana looked and felt like ten miles of bad road after being rode hard on by fifteen trucks. Back inside, the head butler handed her an envelope of what Mr. Westergaard had promised her for the evening. It was a hard-earned fifty dollars and sixteen cents. She pressed God's gift against her heart and told Daddy that she was almost there. All she had to do was make it home first.

Tiana wiggled out of those high heels that Miss Dinah had buckled her into and slipped on her yellow slippers for a long walk home. Unfortunately, Greenstone Peninsula didn't have any bus stations nearby. She had gotten to the Westergaard mansion by bussing and walking most of the way at dawn and then carpooling for the rest. That left her with a ten mile walk back ― maybe more if Mrs. Addington didn't show up where she said she would. Goldwater's conqueress-to-be sat down on Mr. Westergaard's water fountain to massage some strength into her feet after everybody else had gone on home in their fancy cars.

Tiana took a nice deep breath. Snatching off her slippers brought her burned fingers into view, but not the ruby that was supposed to be on her index. "...Mama's ring," she muttered like she was dreaming. Then the realness of the situation wrapped around her throat and choked her out. "I...! I-I lost Mama's  _ring_!" 

Tears got in the way of Tiana's vision, but she didn't have time to be letting them fall. She searched high and low for the last part of Mama that she still had in this ingrown toenail of a city. Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard's maids didn't want to be bothered with her begging. Tiana tried combing through the vacant backyard for a red glimmer in the grass with little to no luck. She'd been running all over hell's half acre faster than a hot knife through butter and there was still no ruby.

Before the clock struck nine, she was worn slap out. "I done...looked  _everywhere_ for that ring," panted Mama's awful excuse for a daughter. Her feet were yowling at her like her shame was. The summer heat, which had turned the garden into a pressure cooker, made her dress stick against her skin like grease. She found a steel garden bench to rest on and just sat there crying against the bottom of her grass-stained dress like it was Kleenex.

"I'm sorry, Mama," she said. "I jus' wanted ta' look nice t'night. Now my vanity will be the reason why I can't find what was so precious ta' you."

"...Well, you still look rather dazzling from this angle," a tender voice said behind her.

Spooked to death, Tiana looked around. She palmed her tears and blinked at whom she found. "Mista Rida?" She frowned. "What're you still doin' out here?"

"Stretching my legs, more or less." He was standing by the wisteria tunnel with a lipstick-stained handkerchief in his hands, looking sorry for her even though he looked like he had already been feeling down. Her acknowledging his unhappy existence somehow cued him to come closer. "Is everything alright?"

Tiana closed her eyes and hung her head, squeezing the wrist in her lap.

"Don't answer that," Mr. Rider gently advised. "It was a stupid question." He tucked away the handkerchief and sat on the long steel bench with her, making sure he didn't sit too close. His folded hands hung between his parted legs. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Mr. Rider's voice was warm honey on French toast.

Tiana wanted to get lost in the memory of sinking her teeth into a piece of Naveen's honeysweet bread. The wanting of it turned her bitter because this philandering stranger had no business reminding her of so many memories from a life no longer lived. She didn't really mean it when she said to him, "Thank you for your kindness, but I don't need any help." She called herself standing up, but her feet screamed so loud that all she heard was the pain in her legs instead of the yelp from her gut.

Mr. Rider saved her from tumbling head-first into the flowerbeds despite her efforts to tell him that she was good and well when she wasn't. He stressed how badly she needed to sit back down for her sake. She shamefully let him help her back on down. One of her slippers came off and exposed the extent of her problems.

"Tiana," Mr. Rider's voice swelled with urgency, " _how_  did you plan on getting home with your feet looking like that? How did you even make it here with your feet looking like that? There aren't any buses around for _miles_."

"I woulda managed like I _always_ do," she grunted, wriggling in pain. She didn't want him touching on her. Both her feet and her pride were too tender for any man's hands.

Mr. Rider shook his head, put off by what he was looking at. "No,  _you_  need to be driven home." He tried to get her up by placing his hand on her back without asking for her permission to be handled that way.

" _Why_ are you always insistin' on tryna  _help_  me?!" Her yelling made Mr. Rider flinch. More tears flooded her lungs and drowned out her voice, but she continued half-yelling and half-crying in his arms. "I ain't got  _nothin'_  ta' give to you! Not my  _body_ , n-not my  _m-money..._ and  _not_  my  _dignity_!"

Him getting angry would've been more natural to her than the puppy-eyed pause he gave. She told herself that Mr. Rider didn't respond the way society said he should because she had broken down in front of him like the colored damsel he wanted her to be. "Tiana, I don't want anything from you."

"And why not, h-huh?!"

" _Because_  I..."

She waited for a sensible explanation. Mr. Rider closed his mouth, wrongly assuming that his eyes would say enough.

"Well, what is it?!"

"I just want to help you get home safely."

Tiana wasn't fit to hear it. "You're a liar, Mista Rida. A  _good_  one, at that." Losing Mama's ring, bleeding out her feet to feed white people who didn't like her the way they liked themselves, and dealing with a known womanizer put her in a rage. All she knew was that she had to get up and get out of Mr. Rider's face once and for all before she said something terrible. Her feet may have been heavy like stone and hot like fire, but she carried on because that's what she had to do.

"Tiana," Mr. Rider pleaded as he went after her, "let me at  _least_ ―"

"I already told you that I don't need any help! I-I can...do  _fine_  all by myself!"

A flashlight put their shadows on the grass. "What's happening back here?"

Tiana and Mr. Rider froze like roaches in a kitchen.

"...Mr. Rider and Miss Dubòis," Mr. Westergaard identified monotonously, his skin pink and glazed from the hot night air. "How astonishing." He wasn't pleased with his findings one bit. "Mr. Rider, Miss Orléans has been waiting for you inside, and Miss Dubòis, I thought you were on your way out. It's well past nine."

"I-I was―"

"She can't―"

Tiana and Mr. Rider blurted out at the same time. She glared at him for making her woes more of a tragicomedy than they needed to be.

"Miss Dubòis can't walk on her feet," Mr. Rider selfishly spilled to Mr. Westergaard, "but she doesn't have a ride home, so she's in a bit of a bind."

Mr. Westergaard put the flashlight solely on her. "Is that so, Miss Dubòis?"

Tiana blocked the brightness with her hand. "No, sir. Not entirely, I mean. I-I have a friend picking me up 'bout ten miles from here."

"A  _friend_ , you say? And, whom  _exactly_  might you know on the peninsula?"

Tiana wanted to go back in time and eat her words. Mrs. Addington was a white-passing woman with a white husband; she wouldn't want Mr. Westergaard of all men gossiping about her "chauffeuring" Coloreds. People would get to looking at her too closely. "I...I don't, sir. They aren't from aroun' these parts."

As Mr. Westergaard squinted at her, his grin had a real sinister look to it. " _That's_  strange."

"I don't see how it matters," Mr. Rider threw out. "We should probably take your  _irrefutabl_ y hardworking baker back inside to get a look at those soles of hers." He had to be insane in the membrane to think that Mr. Westergaard would want her back in his house after hours. His guests had probably told him about her giving lip on his property.

"It sounds to me like she already has everything sorted out," Mr. Westergaard decided, confirming her suspicions.

"You're joking, right?" Mr. Rider wouldn't let it go. "She can't walk _ten_  whole  _miles_ ," he laughed, covering up his irritation.

"Does Miss Dubòis  _want_  our help, Mr. Rider?"

"I'm fine, Mista Westergaard. Really."

Mr. Westergaard looked back at Mr. Rider. "You heard her."

It's interesting how some white people can be one way and then something totally different when their patience for you has dried up.

"Gabriel will see you out, Miss Dubòis."

"Thank you, Mista Westergaard."

He didn't stare at her. "Think nothing of it."

The black security guard who'd been shadowing Mr. Westergaard all that time came over to escort her off the premises. She straightened her back like a soldier and wrapped her hands into fists. He walked her to the iron gate that would let her out to Mr. Westergaard's driveway. Senator Osborne and his colleagues watched her limp from the water fountain. She could hear Mr. Rider saying something behind her, and then the whole lot of them said something to him, but she didn't look back.

Tiana kept her sights where they needed to be and thanked God for helping her feet find the sidewalk. The gates and fences picketing lawns worked as crutches for her shaking hands. The more she limped, the more everything started looking the same. A white woman in a nightcap spied on her from her window until she made it off her block. That second block was the furthest her will would take her.

The seat of a park bench looked nice and soft in the distance. It felt even friendlier against Tiana's skin when she curled up on it and opened her tired eyes to the stars above. She hoped that Daddy wasn't looking back. She prayed to God that the clouds had clouded his sight. Resting her own eyes for a minute felt tempting, but she could only let them rest for a little while.

Sure enough, resting them for a little while turned into resting them for a little under an hour. The sound of an automobile woke her up. She protected her eyes from the burning headlights to try and see the model between her fingers. It was an Auburn Speedster with a convertible top.

The driver parked next to her bench and turned the engine off to swing his car door open. " _There_  you are," he blubbered, doing his darnest to keep his voice clean of panic. "I‘ve been looking all over for you!"

"Not you again, Mista Rida," Tiana moaned, woozy from a migraine. Her whole body felt like broken glass and sandpaper. There was no thinking for a headless body like that.

Mr. Rider jogged over to the park bench she was shivering on. He was all out of breath and flushed down to the Adam's apple. His bow tie and dinner jacket were missing from his disheveled outfit, which he must've sweated out while he was riding around the suburb looking for her. Even his hair had dried from its pomade, giving him a wild rogue look that suited him. "Well," he began as he gently peeled off her cheap slippers, "I'm more than happy to see you, but you can't be getting shut-eye on a park bench in a de facto "Whites only" park."

Once again, Tiana didn't have a head for thinking or comprehending. Her brain was cranberry-orange gelatin. She laid back down with her arm over her face, wanting to just go to sleep where she was.

Mr. Rider slid one hand under her head and the other under her legs. "Tiana, I'm taking you to a doctor."

"A who? Whateva for?" She was talking nonsense.

Mr. Rider was very literally trying to sweep her off her feet, but he was no good at it because she kept urging him to let her be. "Tiana? Tiana. Honey, look at me. I already know you're superwoman, but right now, you need someone to take a look at your feet. You left a trail of bloodprints all over the neighborhood."

"O-ow..." Tiana couldn't hear him over the sound of her head caving in, or feel him carrying her to his car over the pain of her body giving out. "Why's my head of all things hurtin' so bad?" 

"Probably because you're hardheaded." Mr. Rider placed her in the backseat of his vehicle with the care of a nurse.

She curled up in that warm backseat like she did on that freezing cold park bench, except this felt much better. Mr. Rider set her bloody slippers on the floor and rolled out a lady's coat for her feet. There was no lady friend in the passenger's seat, but she didn't care to speculate why. She was floating on a cloud of pinprick needles. Mr. Rider climbed back into his car and shut the door to get the engine going. Without telling her anything else, he rode off into the moonrise with her welfare in his car.

Tiana Dubòis from Honeyville didn't want some white knight swooping in to rescue her from herself, but she did need a doctor in a white coat to swoop down and rescue those feet.


End file.
